


the ones she had lost, the ones she had found

by scalesandfishnails



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Love/Hate, Other, Romantic Fluff, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalesandfishnails/pseuds/scalesandfishnails
Summary: Kora's life is turned upside down seemingly overnight, as the daughter of House Aeducan is thrust into the role of one of the last surviving Grey Wardens.  When the man sent to take her life becomes her latest suitor, it becomes all too easy for her to take refuge in the nights they spend together.  The campfire becomes their symbol for peace, and whatever struggle their party faces, they return to their evening fire as a found family of their own.But though they may have been destined to meet, that doesn't mean they are destined to remain together forever.





	1. honey.

He’s an elf. Lithe, slim-eared, sun-kissed features that crease at the corners of his eyes and dip in suggestively at the tug of his mouth. He’s an elf. Not as tall as Alistair, even shy of Leliana – all his grace surrounds him in all his length, even if his height falls short. Not that Kora can judge. Kora Aeducan, skin brown as the smooth-faced trees they travel through, yet untouched by the Blight – or, at least, not so tainted as far as the eye can see. Hair dark and drifting in a lazy fringe over her brows, olive glance flitting from the path ahead to the – prisoner? – on the back of the cart. Not _their_ cart, but Bodahn’s, with the merchant peering back over his shoulder distrustfully every so often. The – yeah, prisoner – is making conversation with Bodahn’s son. Sandal talks animatedly, the elf gives lazy replies. He’s a _prisoner_ , but he idles against Bodahn’s crates with all the luxury of a pampered prince, eyes half-closed, pale hair drifting off and on his brow.

An elf. She shouldn’t stare, but she does. It’s rude. Kora knows better. You don’t get many elves in Orzammar, though. Surfacers in general, clearly, but she’s grown accustomed to the faces of Morrigan, moody and thoughtful as she takes the lead – Alistair, who every so often tends to the mabari they picked up along the way with gently lilting excitement. Leliana, beautiful, impeccable, her Orlesian accent touching even her laughter as she watches human and dog bond together for life. Kora’s even sort of grown used to Sten. He strides a little behind Morrigan, his brow set in a perpetual frown. She’s learning to sift through his expressions and learn which ones are his interpretation of a smile. He’s not so intimidating, once you start figuring that out.

The elf, though. Zevran. As a general rule of thumb, you don’t pick up assassins as pets. You don’t take an – Antivan Crow? – and keep him in your back pocket, expecting to make it out of the encounter alive. Alistair’s disapproval especially had been palpable as, blinking down into the elf’s dark, daring gaze, Kora had decided to spare him. A crude sort of jest, in a way. Out of sheer panic, sheer self-defence, they’d cut down all the rest of his companions. Not that he seemed to care too much about them. That should be a warning sign, shouldn’t it? She didn’t heed it. She doesn’t heed it now. She thinks what stands out about him, even as she steals covert glances toward him, is that though he doesn’t appear the part of the prisoner, he doesn’t appear particularly dangerous either. On the ground, meeting her gaze head-on, the rest of him had appeared defeated and submissive. Now, when Sandal laughs and makes gleeful noises to a remarkably one-sided conversation on the elf’s part, he appears – sad. His eyes drift between the trees that they pass by, searching the canopy for something unnamed, and the expression on his face doesn’t match his purposefully loud, uncaring words.

“You are enchanted by him.” The Orlesian-tinted laugh has faded and swung closer to Kora. She feels the heat steal her cheeks.

“I’m _curious_ about him,” she corrects Leliana. Her eyes tear away from the unrepentant elf to take in the neatly trimmed red hair, slim braid swinging close to a milk-like cheek. When Leliana smiles, it is perfectly measured, as though put on display for a sculptor’s hand. “Something’s not right.”

“Not right? You do realise he is an assassin, yes?”

“That was established,” Kora mumbles. Again, hungry for more, her eyes dart back to the elf. To her surprise, Zevran is looking back. Maybe anyone else would have quickly looked away, pretended that they were never watching. He does nothing of the sort. Boldly, he holds her eye and – very slowly – the corner of his mouth curls up. It’s her turn to look away. “Are you saying all assassins are like _him_?”

“A remarkably handsome elf?” The glee is tangible in Leliana’s tone. She bends her midriff slightly when she talks to Kora. Sometimes she remembers herself and straightens, but in the heat of the moment, it slips her mind. “Oh no. Some of them can be quite brutal – scarred, large – they can come from _all_ walks of life. I think you are very lucky that someone decided to send their most charming killer on your trail.”

“We know who sent him.” Kora’s words are sharp despite her previous embarrassment. She shifts the rucksack on her armoured back, keeping all her poultices and ‘nifty things’ near, even despite Bodahn’s previous offers of carrying their luggage. Her trust issues have magnified somewhat since departing from Orzammar. “Honestly, I don’t find it so flattering.”

Leliana’s expression evens out from her bright-eyed amusement. “You shouldn’t. But also, I find it curious that you spared him.”

Kora nearly misses a step. She doesn’t like being put on the spot. In her old life, not many questioned what she decided. Her noble caste had lent her that privilege, and she knew that she had been somewhat … _desired_. The thought twists her face, no doubt rendering her expression not so desirable after all. That life is behind her now. She is a Grey Warden, thrust into the cusp of leadership that she’d always had the ambition for, but never truly the temperament. She acts on her impulses. She knows this about herself. Sparing her handsome assassin is something that the daughter of House Aeducan might get away with. As the begrudging head of their rag-tag party, however, she’d had a lot more dissent than she knew how to rationally handle.

“It’s not because I’m enchanted by him,” she says dryly, “if that’s what you think.” It sounds defensive in her ears, but she tilts her chin up and stubbornly looks ahead.

“I didn’t think it was. I have faith that you are not _so_ shallow.” Again, a hint of amusement in Leliana’s voice. She continues on a little more sombrely. “But our companions’ hesitation is well-placed. It would have been expected to do away with him quickly – send a message to the man who hired him, as well as any who would follow his precedent. To decide otherwise seems almost … _calculated_.”

“And how is my equation turning out, to you?”

Leliana shrugs, an easy glance sent toward Bodahn’s cart. “I’ve yet to see. I do think you are right. There is something more to him than meets the eye. He’s too intelligent for all his lewd jokes and provoking. He is doing it all for a reason himself. Maybe you want to find out why. What if there is more to the enemy’s hand than we thought?”

This time, Kora sneaks a covert glance to the side of Leliana’s face. Her expression is open but thoughtful, and she shamelessly studies the cart without reservation. _Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye too, friend._

“You’re a little curious yourself. You’re always thinking twelve steps ahead. Even further than I am, and I was _born_ into a viper’s nest.”

The Orlesian girl’s eyes dart back. Her smile is charming, but breaks a step beyond calculated.

“Then we have more in common than either of us realise. Let us keep a close eye on the assassin. I think we will have much to learn.”

-

They make camp in a crop of meadow circled by trees, bright stars dancing round the two moons in the sky. Satina casts a long, silvered ray over the flickering firelight, by which Kora takes great care to clean her blades. She might have been born into a noble house, but they are a house proud to fight and stake their claim. She is no different. She leans more into her speed, her flexibility of movement that the surfacers didn’t seem to expect from a dwarf. Often, she wonders how many of them would have the same expectations if they visited Orzammar themselves. It’s a place that can keep you on your toes at the best of times. It’s up here, peering into the bottomless sky, where one can feel completely removed from the threat of darkspawn and poverty. If she looks up into it now, she will still feel somewhat lightheaded, so she keeps her eyes firmly on her work.

The sound of shifting limbs behind her sends tension all up her spine and into the back of her neck. Shifting limbs and – _hopping?_ It’s an ungainly sound across the grass, to be sure. Kora twists on the spot, blinking roundly when she spots Zevran not a person’s width away, still appearing somewhat elegant as he braces himself for the next hop. He pauses when he catches her eye.

“How long am I to be bound for, do you think?” His tone is insolent. Kora gapes for several moments. How had he managed to sneak up on her, hands and feet tied? The heat flushes back into her cheeks, on cue.

“I’m not sure if you know what the term _prisoner_ entails.” Her tone is freezing – one she used easily in Orzammar when she felt a slight or disrespect. His budding grin wanes. There is a sharpness to his features when he does not crease them into a disarming smile. Harsh, intelligent eyes like Leliana predicted – eyes that roam and see too much. For instance, they take good note of the blades she has poised by her knees. Kora doesn’t know why, but it feels like an invasion of privacy. She’s sat in the firelight, mind, where anyone can see. It shouldn’t ruffle her as much as it does. “You tried to kill us a little earlier, if you weren’t keeping track.”

“I was,” he answers amicably. “I recall also that you spared my life. Most fortunate am I for your benevolence.”

He’s _mocking_ her. Moments like these perpetuate the struggle between Kora Aeducan and Kora the Grey Warden. She thins her lips against each other, fingertips digging harshly into the packed earth. Is it too late to reinstate his death? Maybe. It would be _messy_ too.

“But,” Zevran intercedes, “I accept that I am still at your mercy. So I request humbly, most ravishing warden, that you might unbind me. You will discover there is much I can do with my hands, even my feet, when they are not so, ah – _restricted_.”

The lewdness, again as Leliana reflected. It isn’t the first time Kora’s been come onto. Men take the occasion whenever they can to comment on a woman’s material benefits – the size of her tits, what her lips can do, so on and so forth. It seems especially affronting that this slim, stretched-too-long-the-vertical-way elf has the _gall_ to speak to her in such a way. The hot spots on her cheeks grow. Before she realises it, she’s on her feet – and _glaring_ up at him. Height be damned.

“If I’d an interest in what your _hands and feet_ could do, elf, I’d have sliced them off you before you ever hopped over here. What do you think you are, anyway? A nug?”

Zevran’s expression goes blank. “A – nug?”

“Yes, a nug! What, you don’t get them on the surface?” Why’s he asking about a nug when she just threatened to cut off his limbs? As if to further push the point, she retrieves one of her blades from the ground. This seems to return sense into his head, and he lifts up his bound hands in a show of surrender.

“Peace, peace! Let us try this again, _mm?_ I humbly request, with much chagrin that I may have offended you, that you unbind me. Mostly, of course, because I do not wish to piss in the cart.”

Kora’s features soften. There’s an uncalled for guilt that she chose to intimidate him to begin with, but she swiftly chastises it. “Better. Stretch out your hands.”

He does as commanded and, with barely a second look, she slices the bindings from his wrists. Seeing the imprint of the rope deep into his tan skin barely contains the wince at the back of her throat. It occurs to her that he has not once uttered a word of complaint – not until now. She knows herself that she’d have been howling from morning till night, likely threatening to cut the limbs off her captors. Zevran lightly clears his throat.

“And the feet?” he queries hopefully. There is a nug-like quality to his benign eyes as he asks this, but Kora knows better. Her top lip curls back in a sneer.

“You hopped over here. You can hop your way to the tree line.”

“And you are not afraid that I will run?”

She needs to shift onto the balls of her feet, but shift she does, her glower roaming nearer to his eye. “I could catch you.” The stare-off lasts for some extended moments, his arms still braced before him as though the rope continues to bind him to the spot. His lips part. It’s loathsome that she’s mesmerised by them. The elf does, after all, have a nice pair on him. Up close, she spots the ink that decorates the cutting line of his cheek. Three elegant lines, and she can’t surmise any meaning from them. They’re just enough to set him apart. Just enough to hint at the story beneath the surface. The air is still between them for the charged duration of their matched stares. Then, Zevran tilts his chin up.

“I suppose,” he declares dramatically, “I will make do. You are a cruel mistress, my dear.”

“ _Not_ your mistress.” The thought injects a flutter of horror in her stomach. “Just, remember, I’m the woman you tried to _kill_.”

“And what a waste it would have been, should I have succeeded.” He’s already turning on the spot, letting a stare linger over his shoulder. The words drip honey, and the back of Kora’s throat grows saccharine. Her senses are bereft. She gapes as he, somehow still elegantly, begins to hop away. That is until the mabari catches whiff of him. With the animal barking at his rear, his pace picks up until, inevitably, he collapses face first onto the grass. An abrupt laugh beats itself out of Kora then, long and full.

When he raises his head, she swears he wears a grin of pride. Her heart lodges in her throat, right with the honey that he left in her.


	2. daisies.

It’s not long before Zevran’s feet find freedom as well. As charming as he might be with Kora, she soon discovers he carries that same flair with whomever he chooses to beguile. Notably, he flirts with Leliana. He also flirts with Morrigan. Charm is abruptly revealed to be his native tongue above all else. His secrets, closely guarded, never seem to be translated.

Kora watches him like a hawk and, as agreed upon, so does Leliana. There are evenings where they bend their heads together beside the fire, murmuring their findings. This naturally comes second to their foremost quest, and the days demand much of them where the nights lend themselves to gossip. In that sense, Zevran lives up to his word – he _is_ useful with his hands and feet unbound. He mirrors Kora’s expertise with his blades, short and slender, more akin to be called _knives_. His form in wielding them is impeccable – smooth, like an endless dance. With his words he might play the jester, but there is a trained practice to the assassin’s skill set. The training for such could not have been endured lightly – and the killer’s spark in his gaze could not be worn by anything other than a steel heart. He, in turn, admires _her_ skill. She has no doubt he knows his way around a locked door or stubborn crate, but he steps back to allow her her moments regardless. Often, she swallows down that petulant need to outperform him, or to impress. It’s a childish thing, belonging to the girl who once shone bright in Orzammar. Here, in the wilds, there is no room for ego. Ego gets you killed. Ego gets _other people_ killed. She saw that firsthand, here on the surface.

So, with all that carried on their backs, their evenings become sacred. There is an unspoken agreement that within the periphery of the firelight, the day’s doubts and gore are banished, left to accumulate dust and stink in the shadows outside. Kora discovers that there are different worlds between the night and the day – that the surface isn’t always the same. Sometimes you’re fighting for your life. Sometimes you’re telling jokes while your dinner’s cooking on the logs. Bodahn becomes the unspoken companion of their group. Though he never ventures into battle with them, his cart tails their procession, and he freely offers his expertise when questions arise on the nature of whatever spoils they find in their travels. If _family_ hadn’t left such a bitter taste on the tip of Kora’s tongue, she might refer to them all as that.

A found family. Ties stronger than blood.

“So, what do you think?” The question comes abruptly as tendrils of smoke wiggle between their tent peaks. Even Morrigan has camped closer than she usually does, no doubt to eavesdrop on the juicy gossip. Whatever she says in the day, during the night, Kora surmises she becomes just as lonely as anyone else. It’s Leliana, however, who poises the question. She is idly crafting a daisy chain. The flowers are crimped and dying between her fingertips, but their lack of beauty does not seem to concern her.

“I’ve seen better,” Kora answers, refocusing her gaze back from the middle distance. From a pot they tucked into their belongings after passing through Lothering, a pale soup is bubbling away. Grease forms an inviting froth on the thin surface, and the fresh scent of hop shoots bites greenly into the air before her nose. Leliana blinks, lifting her head from her work. She laughs.

“ _No_ , silly – I meant _Zevran_.”

“I’ve seen better.” The words come as quick as her first answer. Leliana grandiosely rolls her eyes, then leans over and sets the circlet of daisies on Kora’s head. The dwarf promptly wrinkles her nose.

“Yet you look at him very much. Maybe you’re just always comparing him to someone else? Tell me. Is it Alistair?”

Though her belly is empty, Kora feels the prompt sensation of choking on her own spittle. Gracefully, she swallows it down. “Let’s not.”

“ _Oh._ How about Morrigan? She is very beautiful, isn’t she? A daughter of the Korcari wilds? So unfamiliar with the world of men, and yet, so easily twining them around her little finger … ”

“I’m starting to worry where your imagination takes you.”

Leliana beams. Her eyes flick up over the campfire, measuring her own middle distance. Somewhere over there, Kora can hear the brief chatter between Zevran and Sten – again, remarkably one-sided. The elf’s prodding lilts are infrequently met with the unimpressed, unfazed grunts of the Qunari. Briefly, Kora envies him his stoic nature. Then, “What about Sten? All those _muscles_. And who’s to say what golden heart lies beneath that stony veneer? Oh, it would be _truly_ romantic.”

“What, pray tell, are you babbling on about now?” Morrigan’s voice drifts from her tent, set up further from the rest. She steps out into the dwindling evening light, her brow knitted together. She is every inch the beautiful girl Leliana has made her out to be – the sultry enigma from the wilderness of Ferelden. Kora has as much of an eye for that sort of thing as Leliana, but decorum has taught her not to openly gossip about the potential romantic ties of her neighbours. Especially in Orzammar. The wrong scandal around the wrong pair could potentially see someone exiled to the surface – permanently. “If you’re playing matchmaker with our companions, I ask that you _not_ include me in your frivolity, let alone in the same breath as either of our Grey Wardens.”

Kora softly exhales at the sting, and Leliana’s brows rise. “Truly? Do you not think either of them are so charming? Alistair is naïve, yes, but _some_ women find that to be a welcome challenge.”

Morrigan snorts. “A challenge? Oh, his loathsome temperament is a _trial_ to be sure.” She squats by the pot, peering into the bubbling soup with a sharp focus. Whatever her demeanour toward her more sentient companions, she knows her way around nature, and how to survive it. No-one in the camp could deny her that. “As for Kora, well – I hardly think I’m her preference.”

The dwarf opens her mouth to combat the assumption, but Leliana beats her to the punch. “Oh, no! I’m quite certain I know who _her_ preference is, but she doesn’t seem willing to admit it.”

“Preference?” Alistair’s hair prods out of one of the circling tents. A little less softly, Kora groans. “Are we talking about dinner?”

“Like a _dog_ to his supper,” Morrigan murmurs. Leliana pitches her lilt higher to override her.

“We were discussing matters of our dear Kora’s heart. She has been keeping a close eye on Zevran, you see.”

“We _both_ have!” Kora’s despairing wail falls on deaf ears. Alistair shuffles eagerly nearer to the fire.

“Wait, wait. Are you saying that she’s – in – _love_ – ?”

“ _Love?_ ” Morrigan abruptly intercedes. “Do you _truly_ think we fall in love with whichever _man_ glances our way for more than half a moment?”

“ _Oh!_ Have you seen him glancing at her too? I wasn’t going to mention – ”

Leliana cuts short, and all three of her companions’ heads turn to match her bright-eyed stare. At the edge of the firelight, gliding between the gap of two tents, Zevran listens with his arms crossed over his midriff. Kora briefly notes the flash of disappointment at his failure to transition seamlessly into the conversation. It hasn’t occurred to her that the lack of trust he has curried might affect him too deeply. He is, after all, an assassin.

“By all means, my dear, continue. Who has been glancing at who?”

Between Leliana’s burgeoning smile, Morrigan’s expressionless face, and Kora’s simmering horror, it’s Alistair who gives it all promptly away. He clears his throat, once, twice, thrice. Blatantly, he looks between Zevran and Kora, and then back again. Slowly, the elf follows his glance. Kora can see him doing the equation, then the campfire sparks over his head.

“Ah.” This is his area of comfort, and he fits perfectly into place. “Can I be blamed for my yearning stares? A more exquisite Grey Warden I have never met, let alone one who has bested me so thoroughly. Perhaps she can best me more – privately?”

Kora finds her feet quicker than she’s ever done, her face afire. “I’ll show _you_ how to best someone – !”

In hindsight, she would have liked Leliana to have reached for her a little faster, though she imagines the indolence is on purpose. Morrigan’s sharp bark of laughter doesn’t help, nor does Alistair’s robust cheering. Even Sten looks vaguely amused over Zevran’s shoulder. In the cocoon of the moment, however, she finds herself landing squarely on the elf’s chest, knocking him backwards into the ground at such speed that someone so thin and tall as him surely should snap in half. She worries for it briefly in the back of her mind. She’s had someone try to take her life, then spared him, only to brutally eviscerate him in the light of their sacred campfire. Their evenings will never be the same again.

Instead, they both land hard enough that the breath whips out of their bodies, but neither of them break. Kora wavers a little, straddling the breadth of him, winding her fist back to aim down at his sharply sculpted cheek, the three brazen lines inked across its height. His fingertips settle lightly on her thighs, then pull away, as though remembering their place. The briefest touch is enough to send an uncomfortable flush up through her shins and into the depth of her belly. Her fist wavers, but his gaze doesn’t. He’s staring right into her, the corner of his mouth tilted up. Is he – _goading_ her?

The heat at the bottom of her belly turns cold. She stares down at him, the near desperation in his eyes. There’s an audible clicking at the back of her head, or her throat, whichever one. Leliana has said he must have a reason for being the way that he is, acting out as he has done. Kora thinks she might have figured it out.

“Well, go on,” Alistair calls out. “Don’t keep us all waiting now.”

The skin between Zevran’s brows lightly furrows, the desperation fading. Kora slowly lowers her fist. “You’re all skin and bones,” she says roughly. “You don’t have to stay away from the campfire, you know. You _can_ eat with us.”

All expression vanishes. It unnerves her, the empty shell of an elf it seems to leave behind. Then, without missing another beat, a slick smile forms in place.

“My dear warden, I would _never_ stay away.”

-

Their conversation is singularly different to the ones he is used to. The Crows do not partake in the jovial banter that they do. One man’s witty insult, such as Morrigan’s, could turn into his last day – with a very different counterpart from Alistair who, though huffing and puffing, appears to take it all in stride. Every so often, Zevran catches the corner of his mouth worrying upwards in a smile he cannot suppress. To disguise it, he blows softly on his bowl of soup before his greedy consumption. Kora looks at him. He knows she does. He feels the intent stare of her round, darkly lashed eyes follow his every move. She is not good at disguising this. From the information he has curried around the camp about her, he imagines she never truly had to disguise her intent overly much, where she comes from. At least, in Orzammar, unlike Antiva, it seems they talk more with fists than with poison.

The crowd around the campfire inevitably begin to melt away, with a sparse selection of yawns or mumbles of well wishes. Those like Sten or Morrigan depart abruptly, without warning. Leliana and Alistair seem loathe to leave the two of them together – the former, because she is curious. The latter … Zevran cannot accurately place the latter. Maybe the fellow still doesn’t trust him all that much. Smart of him. He does inevitably stumble to his feet, heading into his tent with a loud, emphatic yawn. This leaves Zevran in the company of the last Grey Warden, whose fingertips are twitching and pulling at tufts of grass on the ground. He is not aware he has rehearsed this until he does it. He methodically sets the empty bowl of soup down, then reaches around his belt. When he walks toward her, her head jumps upward, startled, wary. They all have some baggage to them, don’t they? Some distrust. Zevran waits until she has taken him in. Until she understands that he has not come up to her to do her harm, no matter what his mission might have been on the day that they met. Finally, he lets his hand fall away from his belt, extending forth a circlet of crimped dry daisies.

“This fell from your head, earlier. May I return it?”

Her lips part. “ _Re_ -turn it?” She has a funny lilt to her, a drawl that teeters between elegant and crass. It’s charming. And if what he has heard is correct, it should more be elegant. Perhaps the things she has seen have adjusted her demeanour. Regardless, Zevran kneels beside her, settling the crown of flowers back against the dark gleam of her hair. His fingertips pause on the tresses. She has a face that belongs in paintings, as trite a thought that may be. Soft and round, with a gently upturned nose. Delicate. It seems naturally rather disgraceful that he, indelicate, hard, weathered, should brush his hand so near to this endearing portrait of a girl.

“Return it,” he finishes. Then he settles back onto his rear, angling his lower back against the log she is perched upon. Slowly, she lifts her hands and touches her hair where he has touched it. While she is distracted, he tilts his head back and studies her. She is distressed. Not from him, specifically, but in general. One does not wind up where she sits if they have not gone through a great amount of distress. From a noble house to the utter drudgery of keeping darkspawn at bay, all while having a powerful figure in Ferelden thirst for her death? It is a curious thing that has brought them together. “Your shoulders, they are very tense.”

She blinks, roundly. The long, curling length of her lashes eclipse the spark of the fire. “I’m sorry?”

“It is not your fault, my dear. I have watched you. I freely admit to it. Do you know, lovemaking is extraordinarily conducive to relaxation?”

Her face shuts down. _Ah_ , he thinks. _Men have tried this frequently with her._

“Is that all you ever think about, elf?” She is brusque, wearing a tone that no doubt she has grown accustomed to using against unwanted suitors. He does not take it very personally.

“I mean it very sincerely. In Ferelden, you are all a little more uptight. You must make love in the dark, quietly, where no-one can see. In Antiva, we celebrate it. We are even exhibitionists, you could say. Why silence our most base desires?”

She hesitates. Her hands fully lower from the crown atop her head. It suits her well, truly. “Your _base desires_ don’t seem all that sincere when you lust after every pretty girl at camp. Though I appreciate your concern.”

“Do you?”

Her teeth set on edge, then she risks a narrowed glance his way. His face is earnest, open. There are no cloaks nor daggers, at least not on his end. “Well,” she says. She pauses, glaring at the fire. The aggression there eases away as she watches the embers spark up. “It’s nice, to – address it. The bronto in the room.”

“The what?”

“ _Bronto._ You surfacers don’t have them either?” She pauses, then awkwardly simulates a very large shape with her hands. “You know. Big, mean. And the – ” Kora breathes in sharply. “ – the fact that I’m Kora of House Aeducan, but here I am, solving surfacer problems and – killing _darkspawn_.” Her nose does its little wrinkle, puffing out her cheeks. Unable to help it, Zevran laughs. “What? What did I say? That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

“No, no – I did not mean to laugh. I am sorry. It is very … very _Kora of House Aeducan_ of you. You speak of the darkspawn like they are mud on your boot.”

“Aren’t they?” She appears genuinely puzzled. Zevran has to duck his head before another laugh comes forth. For all his attempts at seducing her, she has redirected the conversation to – brontos, and mud. How very fitting. “I didn’t really ask to be hunted by assassins, you know. And Loghain Mac Tir isn’t the only one who has a grudge against me.” Her face darkens. There it is. The luggage that _she_ carries, that has bred such an excellent amount of distrust. Zevran allows it to fester. It is not his place yet to try and lift the hurt from her – not unless she explicitly asks for it. Of course, what she says next sends him vastly off-kilter. “You knew you were going to die, right?”

“ _Eh?_ ”

“I saw the way you were looking at me earlier. You’ve got a death wish. I just want you to know, I stick to my word. If I say you’re going to live? You’re going to live.” She turns her face back toward the fire. “Maybe my word means bronto shit back home, but it means something to me. It should mean something to you too.”

The silence extends between them like a crystallised web. He is afraid, as he is naturally, though he might not show it, that anything he says will tear the silk apart into something crass and rough-spun. So he lets his eyes fall to the embers, the soup sitting thinly at the bottom of his stomach. Not since Antiva has he eaten so wholesomely. Any richer, and he might spew it back up.

“Then you should know,” he says finally, “that I do not lust after every pretty girl in camp. Most specifically, I am intrigued by you.”

She stiffens. He reaches out to her and gently lays his hand over top of hers. He will not chance anything further. It is entirely possible that he has misread the signs, and she is not half so intrigued by him. That is something he can live with. “If ever you wish to address the bronto in the room,” he adds, “you may come to me in my tent. We do not even have to remove our clothes.”

Her cheeks flush a brilliant hue. As he removes his hand, she lashes out for it, closing tight fingertips about his wrist. His balance dips straight toward her, pale hair tangling with her dark. His brow bumps against her brow, and he catches the quickening gleam in her eye.

Then she releases him. Wordless, flushed, Kora of House Aeducan rises from her place and disappears into her tent. Zevran watches her go, counting the daisies in her hair.


	3. torture.

Beneath the shadow of the Circle Tower by the Lake Calenhad docks, she comes into his tent. Her fists scrunched by her side, her shadow enveloping the space between the flaps, she rouses Zevran from his rest. He needs it, admittedly. Their romp in the tower had been – extraordinary. Far more dire than anything he has experienced recently as a Crow. That she has been acting markedly peculiar since has not provoked much suspicion from him. After all, have they not all seen some rather terrible things come the eve? When she strides to him, however, with purpose, his mind begins to race.

Then her mouth lands on his. It is the warmest flourishing of sweetness that begins at the stem of his chest, twining its way through his pulse. His hands scramble too clumsily up to hold her cheeks, and he gasps softly as he pulls back. “Wait, wait,” he murmurs. She stills herself. In the dark, he cannot see her face. He wishes for a candle, and one hand snakes across the packed earth for the telltale slickness of wax. As the flush of deep orange stains her face, he notes with a start that the skin of her cheeks are wet.

“You said lovemaking’s conducive to relaxation,” she mumbles. Her eyes dart downward. He sits up straight, a chill running down his naked spine.

“I did. The implication being that both partners are of a sound mind, freely consenting to such wicked things they might do to one another. You, my dear, have been crying.”

“Does that impair my consent?”

His slender finger extends out, tipping up her chin. Their eyes meet, and he holds hers with a sternness that hopes she will not look away. Then, with contrasting gentleness, he asks, “What is it?” She looks back and forth between his gaze, teeth niggling on her bottom lip. Softly, she grunts.

“I can’t stop seeing it, when I look at you. You were so – nonchalant.” Her words do not fully register in their significance, and then they do. There had been a curious quality to one’s sound mind in the Fade, a place where most only visit in their dreams. And yet, there this dwarf girl had found him, reliving quite a spectacular memory from his mind’s eye. He lets his hands fall, _tsk_ -ing quietly.

“I was on the rack, my dear – not you. You need not suffer for my terrible indiscretions.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

It is his turn to furrow his brow in confusion. The skin on his chest is beginning to pucker with chill from the docks. The air moves in that soft, cold, drifting way that it often does over water. It is perfectly suited for a good evening’s rest. How long has she tortured herself, in turn, thinking of his torture? These evenings by the campfire have become wholly separate from their past struggles. Had she brooded over her night-time meal regardless, all on his account?

_Why?_

“Well – of course. It will do neither of us any good to weep over bygones. Such is what I had to endure to become a part of the Crows. And had I not become a part of the Crows, I would not be serving such a noble cause on your behalf.”

She sits down in the circle of the candlelight, glowering at the thin blanket he uses as some semblance of a bed. He sees the noblewoman in her, in that moment. Orzammar may be made of hard stuff, but nobles everywhere share a similarity. A sort of – ignorance. And when that ignorance is challenged so harshly by the painful, they become deeply affected. Zevran has moved past judgement in such cases. And in hers, he feels a touch of empathy.

“I didn’t give you a choice,” Kora of House Aeducan reminds him. She shifts her knees closer to her chin, burying the latter there. Stripped of her armour, she becomes smaller and slight. A logical explanation for her swift and graceful tactics. “If you hadn’t been faced with death, you’d’ve chosen something else. Maybe a real taste of freedom.”

“You do not think I am free now?”

“ _I’m_ not even free now.”

There it is, the bronto in the room. Zevran shifts forward, breaking his attentive posture to resume something more relaxed. Chin tilted into his open palms, he watches her. “Some nights ago, I invited you to come into my tent and address whatever you may like. Just so you know, I _am_ listening.”

What follows is a familiar tale of an exile – the betrayals, the lost things. Even the found things. Her journey from Orzammar to here, tricked into appearing the common criminal to her family and those beyond. There are far more bloodthirsty tales to be found in Antiva, but Zevran listens with all the sympathy of a man who is being introduced to politics for the first time. When she finishes, she scrubs the back of her hand over her long-lashed eyes.

“I don’t even feel like a proper Grey Warden. I have the – the _taint_ , and everything. I’ll have to go down the Deep Roads sooner or later. I lost Duncan before I even got to know him. The loss is Alistair’s, really. I’m just an imposter, playing at being the leader of the _noble cause_.” She blinks. “You know, if I had the choice, I’d probably be a lot less noble than you are. Run away somewhere. Maybe Antiva.”

“What makes you think you do not have the choice? On the contrary, my dear, you have had the choice from the moment you first left your home. Yet you did not run. Now, when it would be easiest for you to do so, you remain by your companions’ side, fighting the _good fight_ , as it were.” A smile sifts over the elf’s mouth. “It seems you give yourself too little credit.”

She meets his gaze boldly, the pearlescent nature of her grief still dangling off the tips of her lashes. “You could say the same about yourself. There’s no-one stopping you now from running off. You’ve let our guard down.”

“I think you know why it is that I do not run away.”

She comes into realisation, mostly of what she has done. How she has done it. Storming into his tent in the middle of the night, planting a passionate kiss upon him like the bestowing of a blessing from a goddess. When her cheeks begin to flush, Zevran smiles. He extends a hand to run along the curve of her skin, savouring the pulsating heat beneath. Then, lightly, he flicks the backs of his nails against her.

“And how do you feel, now that you have addressed the bronto in the room?”

“We addressed _my_ bronto,” she murmurs. “We barely addressed yours.”

“A-ha. That is the way that I like it.”

“But you’ve lost someone too.” She narrows her pretty eyes, putting aside her own uncertainty to stare into the face of his. “Someone, or something. Maybe that’s why you – well, you came after me. Maybe you thought there wasn’t much worth living for.”

Her observation, as ever, is astute. Zevran holds his silence for several moments longer. Then, with the shift of his hand, he pinches out the candlelight. They both fall into the velvet darkness, only able to pinpoint one another from the rise and fall of their breaths. It is easier for him to answer that way, even as he sees the crestfallen line of her shoulders sink.

“We have all lost someone, or something. Alistair, Morrigan, Leliana – Wynne, who has lost the life that she has come to know in her tower, yes? That is what we are. The ones who have lost. Should we let that define us, my dear warden?”

“How do you not?”

A throaty laugh leaves the back of his mouth, though something within him stings sharply in answer. “Well,” he says, “we tell terrible jokes to start.”

A soft snicker emanates from just before him. “You all have a lot of jokes. They aren’t _all_ terrible.”

“Just most of them, _mm?_ ”

Quiet settles between them. Beyond his tent, he can hear chirps from the water. Whether amphibian or insect, he cannot wholly place. The Circle Tower stretches above them, its architecture ignorant to whatever commotion had come to transpire within it. Even the Blight seems oh so far away – as easy to think of as a fairy tale as he’d always done. In Antiva, as a Crow, one does not pause to think of the darkspawn deep underground. There is always something more daring to attend to. Something far closer to the heart to be afraid of. _Loss_. He thinks of Rinna, as he has recently devoted his nights to doing. He wonders if her spirit had traipsed through the Fade near to his – if, perhaps, Kora had left him longer on the rack, she might have found him. Reunited again in the unlikeliest of places.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf suddenly ejects. “I woke you.”

_From what dream, in the end? They may be sweeter, but only fleeting._ “You did, with such passion. I do not mind so much.”

“May I – stay?” A heartbeat’s pause. “Just lie down here, I mean. I’m still not wholly convinced about the lovemaking.”

His words come out gently, half in thought, half in chiding. “I had no intention of doing anything untoward, my dear.” Her shoulders sag with relief. As she props her elbow on the packed earth, she hesitates again, palpably.

“Gorim.”

“ _Eh?_ ”

“Gorim,” she repeats. “They sent me to the Deep Roads to die, but they banished Gorim to the surface. There was – never anything between us. Nothing tangible anyway. But I think if I ran away, I’d find him first. I wouldn’t know what to do in Antiva.”

A sad smile twists Zevran’s lips where she can’t see. They are all rather predictable creatures, aren’t they?

-

“I do not know why she looks at me in that way.”

“The _awful_ jokes, to begin.” Leliana’s cadence ricochets freely between the naked tree trunks. They have packed up camp, taking to the road to approach Redcliffe. Usually wary of routes that see frequent traffic, lest more assassins hinder their progress, today makes an exception. The weather overnight has led rougher terrain to even more unbearable textures, the remnants of which leave muddy stains on Zevran’s worn boots. He rolls his neck, tired, though he keeps his tone light-hearted.

“Why, should a man not appreciate a fine bosom when he sees it? And an older woman … think of the _experience_ … ”

A light, disgusted huff comes a few steps before them. Even when the elf drags his eyes across her naked nape, however, Morrigan does not turn to acknowledge his presence.

“That’s _precisely_ what I mean,” Leliana insists. Though her expression is animated with disapproval, Zevran senses she does not wholly despise him as much as the rest of the party. “Besides, I believe she thinks you’re a bad influence on Kora.”

His heart quickens in his throat. He remembers waking to find she had already left his tent, nary an imprint of her former presence. It could have been a dream, but then to admit that would be to admit that he would dream of her. He doesn’t want to touch on such tender strings. “Bad?” he hears himself loudly retort. “On the contrary! Why, is it not Kora who launches herself bodily upon me before all the camp? She cannot contain herself! I am, shall we say, her most willing victim.”

“ _That_ is what I mean!” Leliana’s voice steadily rises. They are, of course, conversing currently about their newest companion, the fine vintage named Wynne. She strides near the lead, beside Kora herself, with her silvered head tilted higher the more their argument becomes audible. Zevran has attempted to eavesdrop on their exchange as well, occasionally. There are times when Wynne speaks and looks toward him rather meaningfully. It is the way of those who gossip about their neighbours.

Zevran _adores_ gossip.

Yet, despite the scandal, he finds himself sobering even before Leliana has removed her gaze from him. Accordingly, her bright eyes narrow. One, two – her steps draw her nearer to him until they are shoulder to shoulder. Usually the one to initiate contact, Zevran is taken aback.

“This bothers you,” she says, her sing-song voice dipping lower. “I scarce believe it. I thought _nothing_ ever bothers you.”

“Eh? Who has said that I am bothered?”

“No-one! But you’re so transparent with your face … _that’s_ a feat in itself.”

Morrigan’s head rotates out of vague interest. She is something very much out of a fairy tale herself. Zevran has heard myths of creatures who live at sea, luring sailors to their death through their beauty and their song. If Leliana is the song, Morrigan has the dark, shrouded visage that would intoxicate men to nonsensical feats. She slows until she is somewhat by their side, somewhat in front.

“That’s _adorable_ ,” Leliana continues on. Zevran detects glee that she can be the one to make fun of him, when it is often in reverse. “You _do_ have a soft heart.”

“Ah, yes, yes – so very soft. Easily bruised, I am afraid. I may need consolation – perhaps a deep embrace? A kiss of life, I would venture to say.”

Leliana’s glee falters, the soft skin of her nose wrinkling. “ _Eugh_. You are incorrigible.”

“Careful,” Morrigan drawls. “Using such large words, you may overpower the simple boundaries of his mind. Who then will keep our warden warm at night, beguiling her away from her troubles?”

There is a beat of pause. Leliana steps closer to Morrigan, ducking her red sheen of head. “What? Did you see anything? I hadn’t noticed! Isn’t that quite forward of her, to visit him in his tent? Or was it the other way around? Did _he_ surprise her in the night, a gallant intruder into her dreams?”

Zevran mutters a soft, exasperated curse – and to his relief, Morrigan rolls her eyes. “I will _not_ partake in your gossip.” Another pause. “But I did, in fact, witness her take leave into _his_ tent. Take from that what you will.”

“Truly,” he deadpans. “Did you not plan to _not_ partake in the gossip?”

“If it bothers you so, I might indulge more often.”

“Then no wonder!” Leliana turns an accusing glare on the elf. The sun is creeping high overhead to noon, a fact which his rather empty belly strictly reminds him of. Respite cannot come soon enough for a meal. With her mouth full, she will hardly be able to bother him. “Wynne must be concerned for her. She is quite innocent, you know. A noble girl, yes, but _very_ sheltered. I don’t even think she has seen an elf before you.”

“Nonsense. Do they not have elves in the Grey Wardens?”

“She was _barely_ a part of the wardens. And she watched you so, when you first met. No doubt she thought you were too thin to be real.”

He remembers, growing, how he would fight for extra scraps to fit his hollow stomach. That same stomach gnaws at him now, though perhaps not entirely out of malnourishment. Pointedly, Zevran stifles a yawn against the back of his hand. Keeping one eye open, he takes note of Kora’s head shifting in their direction. They have not spoken, him and her. He begins to wonder if she might be avoiding him. Innocent and sheltered indeed. The sear of her kiss still remains hot on his lips, warmer than any ghost has a right to be.

“A pity. She is just the right size for me.”

-

Evening swallows the day quicker than any of them can bat an eye. They have taken a wide berth around infested Lothering, a fact none of them care to verbalise. Though Zevran was not a part of their excursion into the village, it appears it held some sentimental value for the half of them. A sombre air touches upon their fireside evening, a brand new soup of the day taking residence in their pot. Alistair bemoans the absence of sturdier food, and in biting tones Morrigan invites him to take to hunting, that he might be useful in such a way. Eyes half-closed, the elf leans back until his head hits the grass, counting the stars in the sky while his mind drifts away from their incessant squabbling.

“Might I join you?”

One eye opens, idly studying the conversationalist from behind his lashes. Predictably, as her voice is distinct, Wynne stands above him. Where there is opportunity, Zevran lavishly seizes it.

“ _Ah._ Have you come at last to render me the sweet bliss of your company? Say no more. Words will be unnecessary for the passion come the night.”

Two hot flushes overtake her cheeks. Her demeanour stiffens, arms crossing over the fabric of her robes. In truth, she was no doubt a striking woman in her youth, and perhaps he may very well have been inclined to seduce her in those nostalgic years. A part of him perhaps hopes that she will leave him be, having set the tone of the conversation so lasciviously.

“I had hoped for a simple conversation. If that, however, is beyond you, I will take my leave.”

Both eyes return to a closed state, a melancholy sigh leaving the elf’s lips. “A shame. It is most cruel of you to deny the unspoken between us.”

“What of the unspoken between you and Kora?”

The skin between his brows twinges. _Do not succumb. Do not let it show._ Idly, he scratches the inked lines upon his cheek. “There is, indeed, much unspoken. As in, she does not speak to me. No matter – she has much and more to think about. The good of the world, and all that.”

“You sound _disappointed_.”

_Leave_ , he thinks somewhat harshly. _Turn away. Be repulsed by me. Anything._ “I only speak the truth. I am but a distraction. That is what you wish to hear, no?”

Her silence is both palpable and transparent. Softly, she clears the back of her throat. “You must understand, I worry equally for the _both_ of you. The life of a warden is … cruel, on love. There would be no promise of the two of you growing old together. In time, she will hear the Calling – ”

“I am not in love.” The words cut through the air, lacking any of the dripping honey he has cottoned onto his cadence. The silence is far longer this time; chilled. And he has shown his hand as easily as a drunken beggar. The man does protest too much.

“Very well,” Wynne murmurs softly. “You have put me in my place.”

-

Dreams of Rinna evaporate into an oil-slick darkness. From the depths of the abyss, he hears a familiar voice calling to him. Kora’s notes fade over the chasm between them. He struggles to find a way across, but the deeply ingrained knowledge that he will slip and fall at the slightest motion overwhelms him with cowardice. Her voice grows hoarse with desperation, until inevitably it ceases. Zevran straightens from his sleep, cold sweat riddling the skin of his back. His tent is barren except for him. His heart beats like a rabbit in his chest. The fire is dwindling outside. Someone will need to refresh it.

The thought occurs to him that he might find salvation in her tent. Much like she came to him in the throes of her doubts, perhaps she will accept him in turn if he shows her his. The vision of her hardened yet pretty face flutters between his thoughts. He imagines her standing before him, stripped of her armour, confusion flattening her expression as he explains. A sudden, harsh laugh bubbles up at the back of his throat, though he does not release it.

“Foolish,” he whispers to the stale air. “You are ever the fool, Zevran Arainai.”


End file.
